Free Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4) by Annette Meyers Page B

Calvin’s short quilted jackets under her arm.
    Levine was bowled over. His mouth hung open.
    “My partner, Xenia Smith,” Wetzon murmured.
    “Charmed, I’m sure,” Smith drawled, like a character out of Private Lives. She batted her eyelashes at Roger and offered her hand.
    “Delighted.” Roger was plainly in Private Lives , too. He took her hand and held on to it a trifle too long, then cleared his throat and tried halfheartedly to pull his eyes back into their sockets.
    “Oh, fuck.” Wetzon withdrew to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. As she put the croissants on a plate, she heard the outside door close.
    Smith bustled into the kitchen with “What a charming man.”
    “He’s married to an analyst with Smith Barney, and she’s pregnant.” Wetzon took another cup from the cupboard, banged it down, and poured coffee for Smith. She felt belligerent. And short. Sometimes she felt if she were just two inches taller, she could handle anything....
    “What do you take me for?” Smith reached for a croissant. “Mmmm.”
    Wetzon took a sip of coffee. “I’m not going near that.” She gave Smith a severe look. “What’s with you and Twoey?”
    Smith grinned at her. “I have to keep my hand in, hone my skills, so to speak. You never know, do you? Besides, a little flirt now and then never hurts anyone.”
    “Oh, I give up.”
    “What you’ll never understand, sweetie, is that we women have to use everything, and I mean everything we have to compete in their world.”
    “That is so depressing. I want to go back to the theater.”
    “There’s nothing to go back to.”
    “Oh, Smith, that sounds so final.” Wetzon sniffed. Smith was right.
    “Let’s be realistic, sugar. Would you like to know why we’ve been as successful as we have?”
    “One way or the other, I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
    Smith ignored her. “It’s because we’re good, but it’s also because we’re women and we’re a token. They can show us to the affirmative- action people and say, ‘Look how gender-blind we are. We deal with a company owned and operated by women.’”
    “Now you’ve thoroughly depressed me. And furthermore, you know how much I hate when you do that sexual tease.”
    “So?” Smith smirked at her. “Your apartment is depressing, but our situation is not. We can’t win on their ballfield, playing by their rules, so I make up my own and force them to play by ours. My motto is: Confuse them with sex and make an end run for the goal. Stick with me.” She winked at Wetzon and took another bite of her croissant.
    Wetzon poured herself more coffee. She might disagree with Smith’s tactics, but could she say Smith was entirely wrong? Women on Wall Street had no old-boy network, exchanged no confidences over urinals, and didn’t do business in the clubhouses and on the golf links. So what was left?
    They packed Wetzon’s bags into the trunk of Smith’s Jag and drove over to The Mark, where Smith found a parking place on Seventy-seventh Street almost at once. At ten to four they were sitting at a table in Mark’s Bar, Smith with her Lillet and Wetzon with Pellegrino.
    “Something stronger might be in order,” Smith said.
    “I’ll have a beer later.”
    “Ah, yes. The mysterious dinner companion.” Smith reached into her boot and brought out a tarot card. “The King of Cups,” she said. She held it up to Wetzon.
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Wetzon grumbled.
    Smith gave her a long-suffering look. “Your dinner companion. A kind man, an intelligent man, a leader of men—and women—well-respected.” She paused and rolled her eyes. “An older man.”
    “Put that damn card away, Smith.” Wetzon felt herself flush up to her ear tips. “Here comes Rona.”
    And indeed, a very determined Rona Middleton was striding toward them, and she wasn’t alone.

14.
    T HE WOMAN STRAGGLING in Rona’s wake was short and a bit pudgy, definitely pear-shaped. While Rona